Broken Down and Waiting
by SolarRose29
Summary: "Cap, open your eyes! Come on, don't do this to me!" A mission gone wrong leaves Steve injured and Clint worried.
1. Chapter 1

**The title is taken from the Linkin Park song 'In My Remains'. It's just another thing I don't own. **

**This is set a little before the Winter Soldier movie. In my head cannon, Clint is eventually seen by Hydra as too much of a threat and, under the guise of deeming him unstable due to Loki's influence during the events of the Avengers movie, is locked up. That is why Clint is not in the Winter Soldier movie. But before that, he and Steve often worked together and thus became good friends. **

**A quick warning, Steve does get injured. There is some blood. Just to let you know. **

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><p>A swift right hook to the side of the head catches Steve unaware, the majority of the blow glancing off his helmet. He drops to a crouch to prevent a second attack. Kicking out, he hooks his ankle behind that of his opponent and sweeps the man's legs out from beneath him. Steve recovers his feet and stares down at the enemy laid out on the concrete floor. The man's eyes have gone wide. He realizes his life is about to be taken. Steve hesitates. He brings a boot forward to connect with the man's temple, rendering the guard unconscious. It's not what SHIELD wants but it's all he can stomach so he does it.<p>

"Barton, I've cleared the lower levels," Steve reports into his communicator.

"Has anyone seen Cap?" Clint asks.

Steve's eyebrows come together.

"Nah, been too busy setting the charges." Rumlow's voice is devoid of any emotion except grim pleasure. He enjoys these covert raids in foreign countries in the dead of night.

"Barton, Rumlow," Steve calls, raising his fingers to his ear piece.

"Does anyone know where the captain is?" Clint extends his question to anyone on the Strike Team.

A chorus of negatives flood the comm line.

"Barton," Steve tries again, though it's obvious the sniper can't hear him.

Frustrated with the small device in his ear, Steve pulls it out to see if he can detect any malfunction. It's not likely that he will. Technology, though not as mind-boggling as it was two years ago when he first defrosted, is still confusing at best, downright aggravating at worst. As he peers carefully at it, he notices a wire that has been knocked loose. Rolling his eyes at the unreliability of all these new-fangled contraptions, he sticks the thing back in his ear so he can at least keep track of the rest of his team, even if he can't communicate.

"Ready for detonation in five, four-" Rumlow is beginning the countdown.

A chill splashes along Steve's spinal cord and he dashes through the winding corridors that make up the underground levels of the terrorist base they'd been dispatched to destroy.

"What the hell are you doing?" Clint is angry.

"Blowing this place off the face of the earth," Rumlow retorts.

"We're supposed to wait for Cap," Clint insists.

Rumlow snorts derisively. "Look at that, the little birdy needs his mama to tell him what to do."

Steve doesn't bother opening the mechanical doors that block his way to the surface. He runs straight through them.

"We wait for Cap." Clint ignores the jab.

"Our orders were to set the charges and then blow them," Rumlow argues. "The cap'n agreed with that."

"Let's just wait for him to get here," Clint compromises.

There's a dead end in front of him and Steve marvels that he became so distracted in the situation brewing above ground that he lost his sense of direction below it.

"How long's that gonna take?" Rumlow complains.

"Dunno," Clint snaps. "For some reason his comm's not working right. But at least the GPS is intact and as soon as the coordinates come through…" he trails off, presumably to check his cell phone for the information.

"We're not waiting," Rumlow brashly asserts. "We do this now."

"Holy s-" Clint gasps. "Cap's still down there!"

His words get lost in a rumble of thunder that shakes the ground, shakes the ceiling, shakes Steve's legs until he collapses, unable to maintain his balance. Successive blasts rip the building apart. If there's any more talking between his teammates, Steve can't hear it. Plaster and bedrock shower him in chunks heavy enough to make his shoulder ache where they land. Like the flickering tongue of a cobra, sparks of electricity snap in and out of existence, flying at his face and biting into his skin. Blinking rapidly, he struggles to discern between shadow, dust and obstacles. It's all black, gray, silver and brown and he can't see. Then he takes a breath and he can't breathe either. More piles of dirt pummel his back mercilessly as he crawls toward what he can only hope is the way out. The debris sinks into him, pushing and pushing his spine into his stomach. Pressure builds around the lungs he can't inflate with anything but the chalky mist, which is clogging the air. His ribs bend as the weight of the entire structure falls on his back.

Exploding outward, rebar bursts from the wall and punches a hole through the left side of his torso, sliding around in his stomach before erupting out his right side in a cascade of warm blood. A shocked gasp drops from his cracked lips. Reflexively, his hands fly to the area. They get very wet very fast. He knows he can't stay here. If he stays, he bleeds uncontrollably until he is nothing more than a hollow corpse floating on the surrounding sea of red. Coherent thought is difficult to manage when his abdomen is leaking and the blood is drip-dripping and it hurts, hurts, hurts.

Leaving.

Escaping.

He remembers that much. He has to go.

Trying to take another step brings a fresh wave of agony so intense it makes white flash in and out of his eyes. Past the lightning in his vision, he looks down to find the reason. Lethargically, his eyes track the metal pole from its origin in the caved-in wall beside him, through his body and on to its end in the opposing mountain of broken rocks and shattered concrete. It takes a moment for his brain to make sense of the sight. When it does, he feels sick. He's skewered like a pig on a spit. Weakly, he pushes against the bar but it's jammed fast between the immovable pieces of rubble. Blood loss is making his skull feel partially detached from the rest of his battered body and he wishes it was completely, because being impaled is disgusting and painful. So, so painful.

Eyelids fluttering like fragile butterfly wings, he fights against unconsciousness. If he falls asleep, he's never waking up. A surge of defiance and the pure desire-instinct-need to live fills him with molten lava. It runs in his veins where it burns, burns, burns all the way to his stomach before sliding out to paint his legs and pool at his boots. Refusing to let him submit meekly to fate, it urges him to get free. It raises the fist he has no energy left to and it smashes his unprotected fingers into the rock over and over and over until his knuckles split and the bones break and he limply drops his arms. They swing once, then twice, pendulums waving goodbye to the last few seconds of his life. One gets too close and knocks into the pole, the reverberations traveling the length of the spike, jiggling it around his insides. His jaw drops into a noiseless shout of pain before he loses the fight and sags, eyes rolling back in their sockets. The unsupported weight of his muscled chest and shoulders falls forward and the motion rips the holes just a little bigger, a little wider, on both sides.

Hands on his bicep, on his thigh, on his neck, on his-oh gosh-on his bleeding stomach, wrench him back to awareness. These hands are professional and rough, pulling, jerking, tugging on his raw body. He coughs and the dust is sandpaper in his throat and gravel on his tongue. Lips forming the words, he waits for his vocal chords to kick back into gear. Finally, the connection between larynx and brain is restored.

"…urgh…st'p…pl's'…" It comes out as a croaking moan.

"Cap? Cap?!" Clint's voice is too loud, too eager, in his ears. "You're alive!"

Clint also sounds a little scared and Clint is never scared but when he is, Steve is supposed to make him not be scared anymore because Steve's the leader of the team and he has to take care of all of them and he can't let them get scared or injured because being injured hurts like nothing he's ever felt before and he wants to help Clint not be scared, he really does, but it's so hard to be the strong leader he's supposed to be when his torn stomach feels so bad that he wants to cry but he won't because soldiers don't cry and Captain America would never even think about crying because he's the symbol of bravery and it's overwhelming agony in his abdomen and he can't do more than try his hardest to at least crack open an eye so he can check to make sure Clint isn't stabbed through and stuck on a metal pipe.

He does it. He's not sure how, but somehow he manages to pry open a crusty eyelid. All he can see is black shadows. It gives him a creepy feeling, knowing there are people all around him but he can't see them.

"Cl'n'?" he tries. "'re y'u hur'?"

Something is making his words lodge in-between the teeth that are chattering so much it's a wonder they haven't already fallen out and left gaping holes in his mouth to match the holes in his abdomen.

"Don't talk, Cap," Clint commands and it sounds like his teeth are rattling too.

Knowing that the pain is shaking his own body in its vicious grip, Steve has to make sure the same thing isn't happening to Clint. If Clint is just as hurt as he is, Steve doesn't know what he'll do. The leader is supposed to keep everyone safe and if he didn't keep Clint safe then he can't be the leader anymore and if he's not the leader then he's useless and he'll be kicked off the team because he doesn't even belong in this century and he has to be useful so he can stay on the team that he's grown to love like his other team and he can't take losing another team, he really can't. His heart is too broken to be put back together even one more time. So he fights against the appeal of sleep and the kiss of death and the hands that are all over him.

"Cl'n', y'u…'ky?" This time, the words leave his lips with shiny drops of blood.

Preoccupied, Clint doesn't hear. He's swearing into his communicator, demanding that the SHIELD medical team turn an eight minute flight into an eight second one. Steve still doesn't know if Clint, his teammate, (his friend,) is okay, so he has to try again. Just as he opens his slack jaw to ask again, the hands suddenly yank him and he can feel the cold, cold metal slipping, sliding, slithering across his intestines, bumping against his liver and his kidneys and he feels scraps of his tender skin peel away and stick to that cold, cold metal and it's sickening and painful and tears are squeezed out past his defenses as his brain goes into overload. He hears a whining keen and wonders if he's the one making that heart-breaking sound.

"Stop! You're hurting him! You're hurting him!" Clint comes to his rescue, shoving away those awful hands.

Blessedly warm fingers land on Steve's clammy cheeks. "Stay with me, Cap!" Another order.

Steve is supposed to be the one giving orders. It's his job. He wishes he could be doing his job instead of bleeding all over the floor.

"What the hell do you freaking bastards think you're doing? Wait for the damn medics! You're only making it worse." Clint's snarling now.

"We were just trying to get him off that stupid pole," Rumlow grumbles.

"You know better than to try that without the proper equipment," Clint growls. "You know what? I'm starting to think you want to get him killed."

Rumlow doesn't reply.

Sweat trickles down Steve's face, stinging his eyes with salty liquid and irritating the electrical burns scattered across his cheekbones and jaw line. He's confused by this. Isn't he cold? Why would he sweat when all he feels is freezing cold like metal and ocean water and ice in his head, heart and soul and he doesn't want to drown. Not again. He already did it once. He left his friends, his best girl, abandoned them all just so he could choke on the stuff that preserved his life, keeping him in secret until he was needed to fight off aliens and monsters and robots and terrorists and he's sucking down dust particles that claw at his sinuses but he swallows them all and maybe there's fire as well as ice because his abdomen is blazing and it's one giant pit of hurthurthurt and the hands are back and he just wants them to stop, stop, please stop.

"Get away from him," barks Clint and Steve would hug him if he could. "Stay the hell away or I will personally slice off your fingers and use them as chopsticks to gouge out your eyeballs."

Sometimes, Steve forgets that Clint has a dark side.

"Alright, jeez," Rumlow grudgingly backs off, affronted but subdued.

"Go and wait for the chopper. As soon as it lands, get the medics down here," Clint commands.

There's the stomping of boots and muttered resentful curses but no outright rebellion.

"Cap, open your eyes, come on, don't do this to me!" Gone is the demanding superior. The fear is back in Clint's voice.

Steve responds with obedience all the same, not remembering closing his eyes in the first place. His chest feels tight and he comes to the conclusion that it must be because he's not breathing but, rather, he's frantically panting. Dirt clumps in puddles of sweat on his exposed skin. But he's so cold. And tired. Very, very tired. He's exhausted. He wants to sleep. Why won't Clint let him sleep?

"Don't do that!"

The slap is a shock and it garners its intended reaction. Steve's whole body jerks and his eyes fly open. Pumping savagely, his heart spills more blood to the splintered floor. The blood drains through the cracks, soaks the earth, feeds the worms.

"Sorry," Clint exhales, one part apologetic, the other relieved. "But you gotta hang on just a little longer."

There's such hope and conviction in his eyes that Steve can't stand to let him down. But Captain America stands for honesty and Steve has to tell the truth.

"..not sur'…I…c'n…" he admits his weakness and it tastes like defeat. It's bitter. Sour and vile. Vinegar and spoiled meat. But it had to be said. It's out in the open now, hanging between them with all the power of a physical divider.

"What?" Clint wavers between denial and outrage.

"..hurts…" It sounds pathetic, even to his own ears so Steve knows he's not fit to be the leader anymore.

That's fine, though. The others will get along without him. They're all extraordinary people with extraordinary talents, abilities and tech. They won't miss him, though he's going to miss them something fierce.

"I know it hurts." Clint reaches for his hand and Steve hisses. "What? What's wrong?" Clint is immediately concerned and tense and treating Steve like he's made of glass, which he isn't because glass doesn't bleed. "What's the matter?"

Steve shrugs as best he can. When the action drags the pipe up and down with his shoulder blades, he knows he never wants to repeat the experience. "nuthin'."

Clint doesn't believe him. The archer takes his hand again and this time, Steve doesn't have any reaction. There's pain but it's nowhere near the level of crippling pulsing in his middle, so he doesn't mind. Inhaling sharply, Clint gently rotates the damaged appendage.

"What'd you do to yourself?" he mutters in horror and sympathy.

Steve wants to give an answer, to explain the whole thing: the futile rush of adrenaline, his limbs moving without his explicit consent, the repetitive bang of his knuckles against the concrete and bedrock as he tried to save himself from this slow, painful, drawn-out death. But his voice is dribbling out with the blood, trickling down his sternum and out the two cavities in his gut.

"Hey, hey," Clint quietly admonishes, his fingers a welcome presence among all the grit gathering on Steve's face. His fingertips streak through dirt turned mud as he wipes it away from Steve's eyes, away from his nose and his mouth. "Look at me."

It's tricky to distinguish between Clint and the murky gloom around them both but Steve focuses until he can see a blurry form that must be his rescuer.

"You're going to get out of here and you are going to get better." Clint is confident. So why does his voice tremble? "Come on, don't leave me to deal with Stark all on my own. That guy's a handful," he tests out humor, dipping his toe in it to feel the temperature. It's lukewarm and unappealing.

"'m tryin'," Steve promises. It's all he has left, the only thing keeping him from floating away on the promise of detachment and a final, lasting peace. He's stubborn. Always has been. Probably always will be.

He doesn't want to shirk his duties. They're his responsibility and he has to do them because he's a soldier in the United States Army and he serves his country by being the biggest, fastest, strongest soldier there ever was and most likely ever will be and it would be wrong to leave and dump all his responsibilities on Clint, who has been nothing but accepting and supportive and-thank heavens-loyal and Steve can't repay him with betrayal. The Avengers might not need him like he needs them (he made them into his new family in this new century, which might have been a mistake,) but it will be an inconvenience if they have to find a replacement for him on such short notice.

Who could they get anyway? It would have to be someone who knows how to strategize and organize each member of the team into a well-oiled machine that works flawlessly in order to defeat the threats to the earth, someone who remembers that Tony doesn't like to be handed things and Thor can't have ice cream after eight p.m. because it makes him hyper and Nat secretly enjoys balloon animals but she'll never admit it to anyone. Someone who makes sure Bruce isn't too caught up in his latest project to have a proper meal and a good night's sleep. Someone who checks over Clint's mission reports because the archer can't spell worth anything. They have to get someone who will listen to Fury's briefings because none of the others on the team do it, someone who gets the coffee ready in the morning since the team can't function without it. They'll need someone who will be optimistic in the face of insurmountable odds, steadfast through conflict. Someone to take the hits and handle the paperwork. A pillar of strength and a beacon of hope. The team deserves no less.

The cotton fibers of his pants are soaked with blood and it makes them weigh so much more than if they were dry. Rough and moist and crusty, the fabric grates against the flesh of his legs and it's uncomfortable, which seems so insignificant in comparison to the drama that is his stomach but that's the whole point. He doesn't want to think about the pipe inside his body or the bleeding that just won't stop but keeps going on and on, down his pants and up his boots. There's liquid on his face too. Whether it's tears or sweat or blood or a mixture of all three, he can't tell.

"That's all I'm asking," Clint assures him.

The ghost of a smile wants to curl Steve's lips.

Clomping shoes and hurried conversation bounce along like the beams of the flashlights that the medical team have brought with them. There are gasps of shock when they catch sight of their patient. They've been warned of the situation but nothing could have prepared them for the reality. For a second, no one moves. Clint's fist twists softly, becoming more firm where it encircles Steve's wrist. It's oddly comforting.

The moment passes and there's a flurry of activity.

Equipment is manhandled through the wreckage and there's shouting and lights and voices and smoke and buzzing and blurs and black and white and Steve looses track of Clint and he doesn't want to because Clint is steady and grounding and he protects Steve from strange hands and extra pain. Through the panicked haze that clenches his throat, Steve picks out Clint's tenor among all the tones drifting through the fog. He's spewing out directions and threats with the same breath and it's warming for Steve to hear but he'd really rather have Clint next to him than near him and what is that noise?

"Hey, Cap, listen." Clint is back and Steve's taunt muscles relax. "They have to cut the pipe so they can remove it. The saw's kinda loud. Just wanted to let you know. I'll be right over here, if you need me."

Clint excuses himself, stepping out of the way of the frenzied doctors and Steve regrets breaking his hand because he wants to grab onto Clint because he knows this is not going to be pleasant and he never likes being alone and he's been so alone for so long and he's finally found a friend and now there's only strangers around him and they've got roaring electrical tools and needles that they plunge into his arm over and over again, which is useless because he can't feel the medication but he can feel the pain, the pain that's become his whole world for the past-how long has it been?-he doesn't know how long since that bar slammed into him but they say they're going to get it out and can he hold still? After that, it's a swirl of disjointed images and impressions.

He knows there's pain and he knows there's anger. He doesn't know who's angry or why. And there's blood. Lots of blood. Red, red. Drip, splash. It's coming out of him by the bucketfuls. Gallons and gallons of it, everywhere. He can see it shining, smell it spilling, taste its sticky-sweet flavor.

Others manipulate his body and he lets them. Limp and pliable, he allows them to jerk, haul, jolt him wherever they want. They move fearfully and they speak fearfully. He thinks they get him off the metal but he can't be sure of anything when his brain is shutting down and refusing all communications from his nervous system.

The sky above twirls and spins, while his entire frame rattles and rattles. Soon he's out in the open and he's not moving himself but he can breath again, see again. The smoke is gone and the black is sprinkled with stars. Faces above him crumple in anxiety and the flat lips are swaying as they rush through their conversations but they're talking underwater, indistinct and distant. But none of them are Clint. They left Clint behind in the smoke and the place where there is only pain and blood. He can't-won't-do that.

"Clin'…" His call is muffled by a piece of plastic that covers his mouth and the air is fresh but he can't do anything with it on and he needs it off but his hands are useless and trying to sit up is not working because he can't use the broken hands and his stomach isn't there anymore but Clint needs his help and he can't ignore that.

"…lin'…" he repeats to the unresponsive audience surrounding him.

They won't do anything, they won't go back. There's nothing but hurt-sweat-cold back there and Clint's there. If they won't go, then Steve will. He has to save Clint. He has to.

Gathering what strength he can imagine he has, he rolls over and then there are arms pushing him back and restraining him, stopping him from helping Clint, from saving Clint from blood-dirt-heat. A snarl tinged with desperation tears its way out of Steve's vocal chords. Orders to calm the patient fly across the air like a swarm of hornets. More needles, more arms, more moving. Unnatural wind rifles through the spikes of his hair but Clint's not here and Clint's in pain and it hurts so very much.

"Whoa, easy, stop! Cap! Stop!" It's Clint's voice but Clint hurts.

Steve knows because that's all there is-just throbbing, pulsing, beating, hammering, aching, stinging. All over. In his stomach. In his chest. In his middle and skull and fingers and eyes and palms and ears and throat and thighs and abdomen. It burns and freezes. He wants to get away from it. Arms and legs thrash and he throws his head from side to side, searching for an escape. Nothing helps. It makes it worse. But he can't stop.

"Steve."

He stills instantly. No one calls him by his name. He's always 'Captain America' or 'Captain Rogers' or 'Captain' or 'Capsicle' or 'Cap' but never 'Steve'. It's always 'Captain' because that's who he is, that's all he's worth, that's all anyone cares about. They don't need Steve Rogers as a person. They just need Captain America. But someone said Steve and he is Steve, even if he sometimes forgets that because he's too busy being Captain.

"Calm down and let these guys do they're job. They're here to help you and you really need it 'cause you're in bad shape," Clint explains, soothes. He heaves a sigh that sounds almost like a sob. "Hang on, okay? Do it for me?"

Steve can do that. He can do it for someone who calls him 'Steve' and sticks with him through the black and the pain and the bloodbloodblood. He'll hang on and he'll come out stronger for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, I was going to wait a whole week before posting this. Buuuuuuuut...thanks to all my lovely reviewers/followers/favoriters (is that even a real term? :P) who showed such enthusiasm, chapter two is a few days early! See, good things happen to those who review. :)**

**(And a small warning that Clint's mouth gets a little dirty when he's worked up.)**

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><p>Tossing aside a bent arrow shaft, Clint continued his scan of the other bodies for reusable shafts. They weren't cheap and it was a shame to waste them. Some of them were salvageable, only needing a wipe down with a damp cloth to clear away the blood. But some struck bone and got twisted beyond salvation and those he could only discard for good. Once he had finished his search, he joined the rest of the Strike Team. A cursory glance revealed all to be present except their leader, whom Clint had last seen heading off to take out the remaining guards single-handed.<p>

"Cap?" Clint attempted to contact him.

Static buzzed in his ear. Frowning, he tried again. The same result occurred.

"Has anyone seen Cap?" he opened his inquiry to all channels of their communications line.

"Nah, been to busy setting the charges," Rumlow's gravely voice grated on Clint's eardrums.

Grinding his teeth, Clint ignored the desire to punch the guy in the mouth.

"Does anyone know where the captain is?" He distracted himself, wandering through the impromptu command center the team had set up several yards from the enemy's compound.

Most of the men shook their heads, some not even bothering to grace him with a verbal reply. Clint eyed them all suspiciously. No one seemed too concerned that they'd lost contact with their leader in hostile territory. Clint didn't like the Strike Team. Not one bit. They were too cold. Detached, Clint understood. To be in their line of work, they had to be. Even Clint himself was distant on a mission. But these guys took it to the next level-emotionless, unforgiving, merciless. Not really friendship material. The wariness was mutual. They didn't seem to care much for him either. Regardless of how much they rubbed each other the wrong way, Clint and Rumlow had been paired together more and more frequently. Whether Fury was punishing him for some reason or was honestly unaware of the animosity (unlikely, considering how Fury knew everything,) Clint couldn't say.

But Clint was professional and he could put his personal dislike aside for the sake of a mission. In this particular instance, a mission that could be going south without them being aware of it. Steve wasn't responding to Clint's hails and that sent red flags up in the archer's mind. Loss of communication too often meant loss of life. The thought sent goose bumps prickling under Clint's vest and he quickly commenced a diagnostic on Steve's ear piece via one of the many laptops scattered around the area. The information was confusing and inconclusive. The communicator was both working and not working. Concern growing, Clint ordered the computer to get a trace on the miraculously functioning GPS and to send the results to his phone.

"Ready for detonation in five, four-" Rumlow held up a hand and ticked off the numbers with his fingers.

Clint's head jerked up from the screen he was reading. Ire rising, he stomped over to the other agent. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Blowing this place off the face of the earth," Rumlow retorted, unapologetic.

"We're supposed to wait for Cap," Clint insisted, his dislike for Rumlow only growing at the displayed impertinence, which bordered on insubordination.

Rumlow followed Steve's lead but only when Steve was around to enforce it. The hypocrisy made Clint's stomach churn.

"Look at that, the little birdy needs his mama to tell him what to do," Rumlow mocked derisively.

Gritting his teeth and repeating his recently instituted mantra of W.W.C.A.D (what would Captain America do) over in his head, Clint disregarded the jab. "We wait for Cap," he compromised, putting into practice all the peacekeeping skills he'd picked up from watching Steve deal with those who opposed him.

"Our orders were to set the charges and blow them. The cap'n agreed with that," Rumlow argued, leaning forward into Clint's personal space in a classic intimidation technique.

It didn't work. Clint had read the same manual that Rumlow had. "Let's just wait for him to get here," he repeated unflinchingly.

"How long's that gonna take?" Rumlow complained, aggravated by Clint's lack of reaction.

"Dunno," Clint retorted sharply. "For some reason, his comm's not working right." He pulled out his phone. "But at least the GPS is intact and as soon as the coordinates come through…" he trailed off, eyes running over the numbers on his screen.

"We're not waiting. We're doing this now."

It took a second for Clint to connect Rumlow's announcement with the facts presented on his cell. "Holy s-" he gasped as revelation crashed into him. He raised his head with mounting distress. "Cap's still down there!"

Synthetic thunder blasted away his warning and the ground trembled beneath his feet. Rocking on the waves of rolling dirt, Clint fought to keep his balance while watching with wide eyes as the building in front of him crumbled, bringing thousands of pounds of material, rock and dirt down on Steve. Curses gushed from his tongue, language as filthy as the clouds of dust rising from the destruction before him.

"You bastard!" Clint lunged at Rumlow, shoving him backward with angry fists. "What the hell?!"

Rumlow stumbled a few steps, face tight and grim. "Had to be done."

For a moment, Clint's rage and fear didn't let him speak. Pacing furiously, he tugged at the spikes of his hair with gloved fingers. Abruptly he stopped and whirled on Rumlow. "We're going down there and we're getting him out."

Rumlow scoffed. "No one could survive that."

"He could," Clint asserted vehemently.

With a shake of his head, Rumlow protested. "It's not stable. We risk getting ourselves killed."

"He'd do it for us," Clint reminded, inwardly furious, outwardly calm.

Rumlow rolled his eyes to the sky as if praying for patience, and stepped forward. "It's too late. And besides," he gazed at Clint with undisguised disgust. "It's not your call to make."

Drawing himself up to his full height, eyes a steely gray, Clint challenged him. "I may work for SHIELD but first and foremost, I am an Avenger and you'd better damn well remember that."

A rustling moved through the men gathered around them, murmurs and muttering as each made his opinion known to his neighbor. Sensing that his status and control of the situation were deteriorating, Rumlow grudgingly backed down. With a final searing glare at the cowed Strike Team member, Clint turned to face the rest of the agents.

"Let's move out," he commanded.

As they toiled through the rubble, Clint tried not to think about how unlikely it was that they would recover their captain. It was much more probable that they would find a smashed corpse, twisted and mangled beyond recognition. He yanked ferociously at the chunks of concrete, veins bulging and muscles straining. They made it to the lower levels and Clint's heart was hammering through his rib cage.

"Cap!" he yelled.

The surrounding debris absorbed his call, preventing it from carrying farther than a few inches. Clint felt his hope dropping, falling down his throat to the tips of his combat boots. It was so dark and so dusty. A cough scraped out his left lung and he grimaced at its intensity.

"I found something!" Rumlow informed him.

Leaping over a pile of glass, Clint rushed to his side. Rumlow pointed at a shadow beneath a boulder. Swallowing became impossible as Clint knelt to inspect it. Poking out from under the rock, an arm was visible, fingers on the end of it curled like the legs of a dead spider. Tentatively, Clint reached out and pulled experimentally on it. It slid directly into his knees and he jerked himself back with a gasp. A shudder rippled his spine.

"Is it him?" Rumlow leaned forward eagerly.

Clint shivered again and carefully backed away, while shaking his head slowly. "Not big enough."

The image of the severed arm still rotating through his brain, Clint dragged his feet across caved-in concrete and shattered desks. He pressed forward through the murky black, where dust particles clogged his esophagus and coated his fingernails. Worry stabbed his skin with hypodermic needles. The more destruction he surveyed, the more convinced he became that no one could have escaped unscathed, if at all. But he knew Steve would never give up on him and he had no intention of giving up on his captain.

A mound of sparking electrical equipment divided the basement into a fork. Clint drew up short and peered at both the left and the right hand trails. Rumlow and his followers tromped up behind him.

"We still going on?" Rumlow questioned incredulously. "You saw that guy back there. Or, what was left of him, at least. It seems pretty pointless to continue this crazy escapade."

"We don't stop until we find a body," Clint ground out.

"Fine," Rumlow exhaled. "Right or left?"

"Split up," Clint reluctantly advised, not comfortable with the idea of separating in such an unstable environment but knowing that time was running out for Steve. If he was still alive.

With a twitch of his chin, Rumlow signaled for his men to take the path on the left. He gave Clint a chilly stare before bringing up the rear of his band.

Narrowing his eyes at the arrogant and incredibly irritating Strike Team member, Clint started down his allotted course. It wasn't long before he was met with a dead end. Exploring the rock wall more closely, he discovered that it wasn't rubble blocking his way but rather he had simply reached the limits of the structure. There was nowhere else to go but solid mountain, which was obviously not where Steve was.

Frustration swelling, Clint retraced his steps as quickly as he dared in the dark before ducking into the other tunnel. After only a few paces, the stench of blood slammed into him. Breathing through his mouth only, he ignored the flash of panic the aroma ignited in his chest. Light gleamed faintly ahead of him and he maneuvered around wood, plaster, wire and rock to get to it. He rounded the final corner and froze in horror.

Steve was impaled on a metal pipe. Captain America was skewered, like an animal on a spit. One end of the bar pierced his left side, disappearing-oh gosh-inside his body, before reappearing out the right. Head bowed on his chest, the captain's upper body was limp, held up only by that damn shaft in his abdomen. And there was blood.

So. Much. Blood.

Super soldier or not, an injury like that was deadly. If the initial wound didn't kill him, the blood loss surely would. Icy chunks of guilt swam through Clint's spinal fluid and he knew he was too late. He was too late to save Captain America. He had killed him.

Pivoting on his heel, Clint vomited a puddle of bile and regurgitated protein shake onto the cracked ground. It was like the Loki Incident all over again-the guilt, The regret. The harsh, condemning knowledge that there was nothing he could do to change anything. Through the fog in his brain, he heard the Strike Team moving behind him, muttering to themselves and busying themselves with extricating the…body. With a mournful moan, Clint closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the abrasive surface of the ruins in front of him.

What was he going to tell Fury? Damn. What was he going to tell the other Avengers? This was going to crush them, splinter and fraction them to the point of dis-assembly. Captain America was the heart of the Avengers. Without him…Clint groaned and lowered himself to the floor, burying his face in his knees.

"…urgh…st'p…pl's'…"

Clint's head snapped up. It had sounded like Steve's voice, albeit weakened and riddled with pain. But that was impossible, it couldn't have been…could it? If anyone could have survived a bomb blast, Captain America could. Shakily regaining his feet and hardly daring to breathe, Clint dazedly made his way closer.

"Cap?" he called, straining to see past the crowd of agents partially blocking the soldier from his view. Steve's face was painted in soot but Clint could see his eyelids moving, his lips panting. "Cap?!" Yet, Clint couldn't quite believe it. But there was undeniable evidence. Steve's chest groaned with every ragged breath and his legs were trembling with the strain. He wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. "You're alive!" Clint exclaimed, voicing what his head was struggling to comprehend.

"Cl'n'? 're' y'u hur'?" Steve slurred, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

If he hadn't been quaking with an adrenaline rush of relief, Clint would have rolled his eyes. Leave it to Steve to ask about the safety of others, when he himself was bleeding freely from a serious injury.

Wanting him to conserve what little strength he could, as well as oxygen, Clint gently instructed him not to talk. Steve's head lolled on his neck and Clint took the reprieve as an opportunity to contact SHIELD.

"This is Agent Barton to the helicarrier. Patch me through to the infirmary immediately and advise Director Fury I have a Code 13." It felt good to distract himself with the monotony of ingrained detachment. He gave the details of the situation with a composure that scared himself. After he reported their coordinates, he was given an ETA for the dispatched helicopter. And all his former calm vanished. "That's not good enough! We need one now. He doesn't have eight minutes! Make it eight seconds. I don't care what the hell you have to do. This is Captain America we're talking about. And he's bleeding out! If you're not here in the next second, I swear I will- "

A pathetic noise caught between a strangled scream and a twisted cough yanked Clint's attention away from his communicator and back to the men in front of him. A second wave of horror sloshed against the walls of his stomach. Rumlow and his goons were pulling on Steve, yanking him across the pipe. A whining squelch echoed through the cavern and Clint's anger boiled in his veins. Scraps of pale skin clung to the metal as Steve's body was roughly hauled along the shaft. Without reserve, Clint charged into the mob of agents and shoved them away.

"Stop! You're hurting him! You're hurting him!" he yelled at them. What kinds of idiots were they? Couldn't they see he was alive? That he didn't have to be carted off in a body bag? That his blood was fresh and sticky and that their callous tugging was only making his injury worse? Clint turned his attention to the soldier and sucked in a breath. Eyes rolling back and jaw slack, Steve looked unconscious. Or worse. Fingers shaking, Clint reached out to touch his face. It was slick with sweat made gritty by dust.

"Stay with me, Cap!" he demanded.

Steve relaxed under Clint's touch, tension melting out of the lines on his face. Only once Clint was certain that Steve wasn't going to slip away into an eternal sleep did he whirl on Rumlow with pure venom in his eyes and poison on his tongue.

"What the hell do you freaking idiots think you're doing? Wait for the damn medics," he snarled. "You're only making it worse."

"We were just trying to get him off that stupid pole," Rumlow defended sullenly, gesturing to it.

A growl came from deep in Clint's throat. "You know better than to try that without the proper equipment." He considered all Rumlow's actions up to that point and he couldn't believe the amount of blatant disregard for the safety of their leader that had been displayed. "You know what?" Clint rose from his crouch and stepped so close to Rumlow that their noses were nearly touching. "I'm starting to think you want to get him killed."

Rumlow stared back with a dark look before deliberately challenging Clint with a step toward Steve, gloved hands reaching out.

"Get away from him," barked Clint. "Stay the hell away or I will personally slice off your fingers and use them as chopsticks to gouge out your eyeballs." And he would. If anyone was going to hurt Captain America, Clint would make them hurt so much worse.

"Alright, geez," Rumlow muttered, affronted but sufficiently restrained.

Clint wasn't satisfied. He wanted him out. "Go and wait for the chopper. As soon as it lands, get the medics down here," he dismissed.

Rumlow appeared livid that he was being ordered around by someone he viewed as inferior but he had no choice. Grudgingly, making his displeasure known the entire time through bitter curses, he and the rest of the team left. Clint watched to make sure they actually followed his directions. As soon as they were out of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief. It tasted like blood. Twisting back around, Clint gasped when he saw Steve's eyelids shut and his chest heaving in frantic tides.

"Cap, open your eyes, come on, don't do this to me!" Clint pleaded, crashing to his knees beside his leader.

Steve's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, only long enough for Clint to see blue washed white with pain. Then they shut and Clint's heart skipped a beat.

"Don't do that!" he ordered futilely.

His options were limited. He needed to keep Steve conscious. The most effective way would be a dose of adrenaline, easily achieved by a slap to the face. Unfortunately, that adrenaline would kick the heart into high gear and the blood loss would only be increased. Of course, if Steve fell asleep never to wake, it wouldn't matter how much blood he had left inside his body. The decision fell to Clint and he hated to have to make it.

He wasn't a natural leader. He was a loner. Always had been, had planned on continuing that way. But then Steve came along and invited him onto the Avenger's Initiative, and Clint had never looked back. He was glad to be part of the team. It just felt…right. But this situation was not right. There was nothing right about it. It was about as screwed up as it could get. Time was running out and he had to make the choice.

The connection between his palm and Steve's cheekbone surprised him almost as much as it did Steve. But it was worth it to see Steve snap back to awareness. Awareness was good.

"Sorry," he exhaled in response to Steve's blearily questioning gaze. "But you gotta hang on just a little longer." Long enough for the medics to arrive, with their medicine and their blood transfusions and painkillers and antiseptic and needles and thread.

Steve blinked up at him, creases appearing at the corner of his eyes. Swallowing convulsively, he stuttered out, "..not sur'…I…c'n…"

A spasm of alarm shook Clint's ribs. Captain America never gave up. "What?" Clint questioned, mouth agape. He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend that Steve wasn't surrendering already. Anger bubbled in his throat. It was wrong. So damn wrong. Steve couldn't give up, couldn't leave.

"…hurts…" Steve panted.

The open admission was a surgeon's blade in Clint's navel. Steve never complained-not about paper cuts or sore muscles, broken bones or bullet holes. For some strange reason, he seemed to think that just because his body would heal him faster than anyone else, he had no right to say anything. It had happened on more than one occasion that Clint had only found out Steve had been injured on a mission after the scabs had started forming. And even then, it was only because Clint would happen to see them himself. Steve never brought them up, never called attention to them. Rather, he brushed them all aside with a stoic calm that sometimes frustrated Clint. For Steve to be acknowledging the pain meant that it must have been excruciating. Yet it sounded an awful lot like a concession to surrender. Against his better judgment, Clint's eyes drifted to the cavities in Steve's stomach. Blood gushed, streamed and spurted, splattering Steve in so much crimson. Tracking his focus back to Steve's languishing face, Clint gently reached for his hand.

"I know it hurts," he lied.

He could have no idea the kind of pain such an injury would produce. But all he had to offer was imagination and sympathy. Fingers finally finding Steve's, Clint wrapped his knuckles around the soldier's in a gesture of support. A sharp hiss whistled between Steve's clenched teeth.

The sound startled Clint so badly that he dropped their connected hands. "What? What's wrong?" he peered urgently into the dim blue eyes.

Halfheartedly, and ever so slowly, Steve shrugged. Intense discomfort accompanied the motion and he grimaced but managed to mumble, "nuthin'."

Skeptical and unsure, Clint took Steve's hand again, watching his face for a reaction. There was no change from the sweaty apathy and the struggle to simply keep breathing. Dropping his gaze to the object in his grasp, Clint quietly studied it.

Bluish-black blossomed across the broad digits, fingers distorted and swollen. The joints were misaligned, sections of Steve's fingers hanging at strange angles, limp and useless. A wash of disbelief soaked Clint and he felt his insides twist as he surveyed the damage.

"What'd you do to yourself?" he questioned with a gasp, eyes flicking back to Steve's.

Lackluster and hazy, Steve's gaze roamed the air before him, searching for, but not finding, a focus.

"Hey, hey," Clint called softly, using his other hand to wipe the grime off Steve's cheeks. "Look at me."

Fresh sweat, oozing out of clotted pores, streaked narrow paths through the smoke on Steve's face. Clearly, the strain of concentrating through the obstacle of blood loss was a challenge. But Steve did it anyway. He latched onto Clint with his eyes and beneath the bright glaze of pain, he looked beaten, weary. Clint swallowed and it tasted like concrete and doubt.

"You're going to get out of here and you are going to get better." Clint shoved as much of his remaining conviction into his voice as he could. It wasn't much.

Hope was streaming out on the tide of red running from Steve's side. Clint shouldn't have been lying to himself. He was a SHIELD agent, an assassin. He was well acquainted with death, had seen it enough to know what it looked like. And it looked like Steve. By now, there was more blood outside the captain than in him. No one could survive that. But Steve was nothing if not impossible-a tiny asthmatic turned into a super solider. Unreproducible serum pumping through his veins. A human popsicle who survived seventy years in the arctic to defend Earth from a massive alien invasion. A leader able to control a collection of highly volatile heroes, whose differences would have torn them apart from the beginning if not for his capable headship. Clint had seen Steve bend metal, hold up collapsing buildings, lift entire cars, jump from a speeding jet without a parachute-he was the living definition of the word impossible. He'd inspired Clint with such trust that he had the archer believing he could do anything. And somewhere along the way, he'd morphed from commander into friend. Clint did not want to lose that. To lose _him_. But it seemed as though he had no choice.

"Come on, don't leave me to deal with Stark all on my own." It might have been cruel to use Steve's sense of duty against him, but Clint was desperate. "That guy's a handful."

"'m tryin'," Steve promised, voice crackling over blood-encrusted lips.

"That's all I'm asking," Clint assured him, relief swirling in his brain as Steve's stubbornness afforded them more time. Time for the medics to arrive. To bring help.

A small smile twisted the corner of Steve's mouth, where a single bead of scarlet trickled out.

There was a commotion behind him and Clint looked over his shoulder to see the gleaming white coats of the emergency medical technicians as they poured into the crevice. A collective gasp went up as they saw their patient. Wide eyes and dropped jaws gaped at the captain and his companion. Subconsciously, Clint's fingers tightened carefully around Steve's wrist. Snapped suddenly into action, the medical personnel swooped in, shouting to each other, lugging their bags of equipment, pushing Clint away as they examined the fallen soldier. Unable to stop himself, Clint attempted to help in the only way he could. He added his shouts to the commotion, giving directions and promising pain for anyone who hurt Steve more than necessary. One frazzled doctor took a moment to interrogate Clint as to the nature and extent of the injury. Though Clint could hardly concentrate, his attention divided between attempting to absorb the flurry of agents and keeping track of Steve in all the chaos, for Steve's sake, he forced himself to answer the questions. To listen as the doctor explained the procedure needed to free Steve from the pipe. Clint's gaze drifted from the bearded face of the doctor to the electric saw being shuffled into position.

"Wait. Let me talk to him first," Clint murmured.

With other preparations to set up, the doctor consented to what would have otherwise been a delay. Scrambling over gravel, dust and the shoes of the other people in the cave, Clint made his way to Steve. If it were possible for the captain to look any worse, he did. His skin was a sickly white, all color draining out the perforations in his middle. Sweat reflected back the light, making Steve's exposed flesh glisten. His eyes were wide, yet cloudy with pain and shock. Parted lips gasped and sucked at the air irregularly, as if his lungs sometimes forgot what it was they were supposed to be doing. Throat constricting, Clint knelt beside him.

"Hey, Cap, listen, they have to cut the pipe so they can remove it. The saw's kinda loud." Clint glanced over his shoulder at the looming piece of equipment before turning his attention back to Steve. "Just wanted to let you know. I'll be right over here, if you need me."

Knowing he would only get in the way of the harried medics, Clint backed away, watching closely as the rescuer workers began the procedure. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, he chewed his lower lip and fought to keep himself under control as Steve subconsciously whimpered whenever the doctors so much as touched him. Trailing in a line behind Rumlow, the Strike Team filed into the cramped space. Clint couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though they were only there to gawk in morbid fascination.

"Might be easier just to kill him now," Rumlow observed dispassionately.

Before he knew what he was doing, Clint had his fists wrapped up in Rumlow's shirt, slamming the other agent into the rock wall behind them.

"You son of a bitch! You bastard! What the hell is the damn matter with you?!" Clint exploded, wrenching the fabric tighter between his curled fingers.

Rumlow gaped at the unexpected assault.

"Don't you ever say something like that again! Do you realize what you're suggesting?" Clint growled.

Too startled to form a reply, Rumlow simply stared at him.

"You want to kill-to _murder_-a national icon. A war hero. A freaking Avenger." Voice low and eyes narrowed, Clint stared venomously at his target. "Not to mention, he's also your commanding officer. And my friend." His throat constricted on the last word. "So don't you even think about saying anything like that ever again for the rest of your pathetic life," he snarled.

Finally gathering his wits, Rumlow shoved the hands away from his front. "All I'm saying is that the guy's in a lot of pain. It'd be the more humane thing to do."

Clint pulled away disgustedly. "Humane? You want to kill a man just because he's been injured."

"Does that look like a paper cut to you, Barton?" Rumlow threw an arm out to point at Steve, whose sides were overflowing with scarlet, even as the medics transferred him to a stretcher. "If he doesn't die of blood loss on the way, he can survive to suffer the surgery complications."

Clint glared daggers into the Strike Team member.

"That bar went right through him, gutted him like a pig. Probably punctured the intestine, ruptured the lining. That means that all those digestive juices are gonna flood him. The bacteria will eat him alive," Rumlow asserted maliciously. "Let's spare him that."

With a roar of fury, Clint launched himself into the smug agent, knocking them both to the fragmented floor. They rolled for several feet, gravel digging into their backbones, before Clint gained supremacy. He locked his legs around either side of Rumlow, knees digging into the older man's sides. Repeatedly, he smashed his fist down on the other man's face, a nauseating satisfaction swelling in him as his blows drew blood. The hollered protests of the remaining Strike Team did nothing to slow the vicious attack. It was only when he was physically dragged off by Rumlow's men that Clint ceased his onslaught. Rolling onto his side, the STRIKE team leader cradled his broken nose, groaning in pain. With his arms restrained tightly behind his back by two agents, Clint could do nothing more than watch, his breathing fast and agitated.

"You deserved every bit of that," he panted, anger still hot in his veins.

Roughly, he yanked himself out of the restrictive grasp of the men. Leaning to the side, he spat a glob of saliva into the dirt near Rumlow's boots. Without another word, the archer marched out of the rubble.

Crisp night air stroked his face as he emerged above ground. He took a deep breath, exhaling his temper and inhaling a sort of calm. The silhouette of a helicopter carved into the sky and Clint headed in its direction. A little further ahead, he could see the medics racing along beside the gurney. Their voices rose and they seemed to be having a problem of some sort. They stopped moving, reaching for their patient. Clint's heart dropped and he sprinted the distance between himself and them. Behind the calls of the emergency workers, he could hear feverish pleading mingled with grunts of pain. Pushing his way through the press of bodies, Clint caught sight of Steve. The soldier was thrashing uncontrollably, his trembling rattling the entire gurney and those holding it. Pain highlighted his face, his youthful features crumpled in spasms of agony.

"He's going to hurt himself beyond repair if he keeps this up," one of the medics warned.

Rumlow's spiteful prediction pumped through Clint's brain. Refusing to believe it, Clint laid an urgent hand on Steve's shaking shoulder. "Whoa, easy, stop! Cap! Stop!"

A distorted moan wrenched free of Steve's throat and it was a blade in Clint's chest.

"Steve," he pleaded.

The name broke through the delirium of pain. Steve stopped struggling, his blue eyes drifting to Clint.

"Calm down and let these guys do they're job. They're here to help you and you really need it 'cause you're in bad shape," Clint soothed. He heaved a sigh that sounded almost like a sob. "Hang on, okay? Do it for me?"

Barely perceptible, Steve gave him a nod. A promise. Relief, pure and clean, swept over Clint and he sagged, welcoming it. Steve was going to make it. They were both going to be okay.


End file.
